| Subject: .a nyone, e veryone. |
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Sea Wolf
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Date Posted: 21:28:59 05/02/03 Fri
OK! GUYS I KNOW ITS LONG! But PLEASE read it, ok!? It takes a LONG time to write a post that you think about, and its rude when you skim to the stats.....so PLEASE, just wait until you have the time if you have to, THEN read and reply; just give it the respect that it deserves, capeesh?
The squawk of the osprey and the call of the sea was all that was known to the blasphemous spirit. Through tormented and twisted orbs, that is all that appeared about him; the world is mere variations of ivory granules or water’s varying forms.
And so in greyscale dimensions, we are all the graphical representations of that nauticious landscape.
The Neutral land was no different than the rest. The thick grasses rippled in agile undulation, verdancy cresting at the top of springing cattails. The caw of the seagull was replaced with a crude representation; of incessant racket from forth the quails that intermittently toggled about the ground, or wrens which darted neurotically throughout the jetty-like arbors. And parting this sea like a divine prophecy, a cobalt form sauntered about the golden waves with supremacy and radiating power. In first impression, or feel of the stallion, was not of his pelt, but of his strength. And yet, while he was of massive build, with broad quarters and deep chest, his strength could not be characterized as massive. It was what might be termed a sinewy, knotty strength, of the kind ascribed to lean and wiry equines, but which, in him, because of his heavy build, partook more of the beastly order. Not that in appearance he seemed in the least Prometheus-like. What is striving to be explained is this strength itself, more as a thing apart from his physical semblance. It was a strength unable to be associated with things primitive, with wild animals, and the creatures we imagine our ground-groveling prototypes to have been—a strength savage, ferocious, alive in itself, the essence of life in that is the potency of motion, the elemental stuff itself out of which the many forms of life have been molded; in short, that which writhes in the body of a snake when the head is cut off, and the snake, as a snake, is dead, but still quivers without a physical stimulation.
……………………………………….
So in the entirety of the form, which appeared to be mumbling to himself through ashen lips, was completely awe-inspiring and at the same was the cause to back off and quiver at mere sight. Without a mere silohette, his form could be characterized by his soul alone, and was yet so very characteristic from the gruff interior which carried straight through to the surface. He was firmly planted on his legs; his feet struck the earth squarely and with surety; every movement of a muscle was decisive, and seemed to come out of a strength that was excessive and overwhelming. In fact, though his strength pervaded every section of his monument, it seemed but the advertisement of a greater strength that lurked within, that lay dormant and no more than stirred from time to time, but which might arouse, at any moment, terrible and compelling, like the rage of a lion or the wrath of a storm.
But the storm is calmed, now; although he does not show it, the Wolf is weak.
And although the inner strength was overwhelmingly compelling, there was more to this brazen stallion. Through the first impression of the horse himself, of the beast as apart from his body and from the torrent of blasphemy his strength him spewed forth, crackling with deafening blows; and yet never speaking a word. His body was as sheerely gargantuan as his radiance, however. The facade, with large features and strong lines were delicately engraved with precision. The entirety of him was of the square order, yet well filled out--was parentally massive at first sight; the massiveness seemed to vanish and a conviction to grow of a tremendous and excessive mental or spiritual strength that lay behind, sleeping in the depths of his being.
He was certainly handsome—beautiful in the masculine sense. And again, with never failing wonder, it is continued to be remarked the total lack of viciousness, wickedness, or sinfulness, in his features. It was the cranium; it is undoubted, of a soul who did no wrong. And by this, it is not meant to be misunderstood. What is meant is that it is the face of a being that either did nothing congruent to that which dictates his conscience, or who had no conscience. The usual harem is inclined to the latter of accounting for it. He was a magnificent representation, a steed that was so purely primitive that he was of the mold that came into the world before the development of the moral nature. He was not immoral, but merely unmoral.
Not your average pretty boy; that’s for damn sure.
As it has been stated, in the masculine sense he had a striking shape. Every line in his articulate frame was distinct, cut as clear and sharp as a cameo; while sea and sun had tanned the naturally fair skin to a dark bronze beneath the fair, ashen sprinkled blue of his pelt, which bespoke struggle and battle and added both to his savagery and his beauty. The set of his muzzle, was likewise firm or harsh, with all the fierceness and indomitableness; a head being born to conquer and command. It might have been Roman, or Grecian, only it was a shade too massive for the one, and a shade too delicate for the other. And while the whole crown was the incarnation of fierceness and seemed to greaten the lines of mouth and orb and brow, seemed to give largeness and completeness which otherwise the head would have lacked.
……………………………………….
His thick, burly black mane hung in sea sprays about the brilliantly muscled crest, which had before hidden the amazingly, almost indescribable eyes. Eyes, these while strong in themselves, unusually strong, seemed to speak an immense vigor or virility of spirit that lay behind and beyond and out of sight. There was no sounding such a spirit, no measuring, no determining of metes and bounds, nor nearly classifying in some pigeonhole with others of similar type.
His eyes, his eyes: this might take a moment or two.
The eyes—and it will be all’s destiny to know them well—were large and handsome, wide apart and thought provokingly deep. The true artist’s are wide, sheltering under a metaphorical brow and arched by thick black locks, which accentuated his orbs. The eyes themselves were of that baffling protean gray which is never twice the same; which runes through many shades and colorings like intershot silk in sunshine; which is gray, dark and light, and greenish gray, and sometimes of the clear azure of the deep sea. They were eyes that masked the soul with a thousand guises, and that sometimes opened, at rare moments, and allowed it to rush up as though it were about to fare forth nakedly into the world on some wonderful adventure--eyes that could brood with the hopeless somberness of leaden skies; that could snap and crackle points of fire like those which sparkle from a whirling sword; that could grow chill as an artic landscape, and yet again, that could warm and soften and be all a-dance with love-lights, intense and masculine, and dominate mares till they surrender in a gladness of joy of relief and sacrifice.
Not that he was into that whole...empowering thing.
And although the power of his orbs forbade it, he did not use malevolent intentions with a guilty conscience. He was raised with nothing, and so grew up with the same morality; nothing. He was not hollow; just overly full with the passionate nothingness of brawn and hoary determination. He knew not love, but only philosophy, and the integrity behind a sorrowful yeast.
Live the life you have now; there’s not afterlife. It’s all you got: yeast grows plentiful, but even it stops eventually.
And so with the interest of this peculiar equine, concern that was originally overpowered is now noticed from meticulous inspection. Blood drips from the corners of his lips, undoubtedly resulting from a rusted bit made from cheap outcastings and scraps. The rough rope left calloused sores, being embedded behind his attentive lobes, and the sides of his etched cheeks was left tainted and sore. The bit was tied roughly to a breastplate secured snugly about his broad chest and stomach, leaving a muscled neck tied back at an unnatural and undoubtedly uncomfortable angle. Drapings of frayed leather hung pitifully from either side of the crude representation of a pulling collar; do doubt the steed had stealthily escaped from harsh atmospheres of hard labor. Nevertheless, his entire appeareance appeared uncaring, as if it was just another hurdle in the mundane alias of steeplechase.
Ta-da.
And so the staying goes, with this timeless beast comes sailor legends.
They called him w o l f, wolf and only wolf. Legend has it from the men on the docks he bit a friend of a friend of a friend. Not that the brute ever liked a soul but his own anysides; mayhaps that’s all it was. But the urbans still stand, and many a worker kept their distance from the mouth of the intolerant beast, knowing damn well what they did to so-and so’s good Uncle’s brother’s arm, you know. So with this carnivorous behavior wolf earned only part of his curious alias. The wolf was in his ultimate p r i m e, old enough to be wise and developed but young enough to match philosophical wits to the masters of their years. Undoubtedly m a s c u l i n e, the color of his epidermis a brilliant b l u e – r o a n , ashenly dappled with gray as he has matured to brawning years. His h i s t o r y is a long one, so now that his stats have been blatantly presented it is time to present his past as its own.
Born of an Andalusian and sired from a mutt with Fresian build, he took after them only in the sense of a replicated die-cast. Of no stature, at a premature age he was sold to pull at the coals until his gangly legs extensively pushed him out of the miniscule burrows. Sold to the shipyard, he had lived his remaining years until just to this present day at the youthful age of 5, dragging crates into mechanically impenetrable holds in the cargo hold. Windows viewing the ocean and its contents and hours below the rocking deck to ponder, the Sea Wolf, as his two legged sailor mates became to know him as a crude nickname, had enough time to boil philosophical ideas which were revolutionary, but indeed reflected his disturbingly crude view of the life about him. He has had mares, but never had love, and that is the only part of that category that should be spoken about him. In pulling a particularly akward load on board, there was a sudden realization that the platform was too steep and the work too annoyingly macabre, the steed turned with a twist of a mighty body, trampling without hesitant movement any and all who remained in his way. And so he has arrived here, and here he shall be I suppose. The points of “lights” and “evils” has no meaning to him. Whether he had landed upon the Light Lands or the lands he stand on now, their viewpoints matter not. Because he knows his views upon utility are correct; and that is all that matters.
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